


theory of harmony

by knightcleric



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety Attacks, Brief Alcohol Use, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, background baeksoo, general music major shenanigans, imposter syndrome, jun also has terrible music taste for a musician, jun's a sadboy but he gets better, pianist jun, the shinee boys are there too, trombonist sehun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24460189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightcleric/pseuds/knightcleric
Summary: For an impossible, heavy second, Junmyeon doesn’t believe it. And then he thinks two things.First: Why did he fool himself into thinking he’d even have a chance at winning?And second: He knew he should’ve worn his lucky shirt, the silk one with the mandarin collar.(after losing the competition he foolishly based his worth as a musician on, anxious perfectionist kim junmyeon finds solace in an unexpected place: his conservatory's newmusic ensemble - and its eccentric trombonist, oh sehun)
Relationships: Kim Junmyeon | Suho/Oh Sehun
Comments: 21
Kudos: 60





	theory of harmony

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my extremely self-indulgent music major au!! 
> 
> while USM is a completely fabricated conservatory, everything in this story is based heavily in personal experience as a music major myself, and someone who has played in both newmusic and early music ensembles! it's a constant struggle to not place your self-worth entirely on your playing ability, to not compare yourself to the countless other talented students around you. at its core, this story is about someone finding out they do belong after years of thinking they'll never be good enough.
> 
> i hope you all enjoy. and i hope you like philip glass.
> 
> I've compiled all the pieces/composers mentioned in the work into a playlist for those who'd like to listen!!  
> [spotify](https://tinyurl.com/y8byn4kt)  
> [youtube](https://tinyurl.com/yb75zljf)
> 
> (special thanks to my dear friend amie for beta'ing this and hyping me tf up. i love you)

They’re taking too long.

Junmyeon tugs nervously at his tie, pulls at the collar of his starched white shirt. The auditorium is _sweltering_ , packed full of attendees waiting for the results of the annual concerto competition. All these people here, who watched him trip over his own two feet and nearly fall right over as he walked onstage. All these people here, who heard his foot slip clumsily off the pedal with a noticeable _clunk_ . All these people here, who clapped and cheered for what Junmyeon is certain was an absolute trainwreck of a performance. Then again, he considers most of his performances to be absolute trainwrecks, and a couple of them _had_ won him second place at competitions. Always second. Never first.

God, it is so hot. He feels sweat bead underneath his too-tight collar, pool at the center of his back. He knew he shouldn’t have worn a full suit, should’ve worn his stupid lucky performance shirt, the silk one with the mandarin collar that Minseok constantly made fun of. _Dude, you look like you’re going to a slumber party, not a recital._ He loosens his tie a little more. His collar is choking him.

The judges have been deliberating for what feels like ages now. Junmyeon doesn’t know how much longer he can wait, before he either melts into a puddle of black polyester or explodes from the pressure pushing at his temples. His competitors, lined up in the front row on either side of him, don’t appear to be having the same internal struggle. To his left, Lee Jinki sits calmly, hands clasped, eyes closed. _Of course he’s calm_ , Junmyeon thinks; Jinki was principal oboist in the symphony orchestra and universally loved by pretty much everyone. Regardless of whether he won the competition or not, he would still play in the concert next semester, so the results didn’t really matter to him. (Junmyeon knows this is wholly untrue, but he lets himself think it anyways, half out of spite and half out of deep-seated jealousy.) Anyhow, Jinki entered with a Mozart concerto, and Kyungsoo tells him that Mozart never wins in these types of things. (This is also wholly untrue, but Junmyeon will take any false hope he can get.)

Byun Baekhyun, on the other hand, entered with the Brahms D Major Violin Concerto, which was a very sound (and thus concerning) business decision. The piece was virtuosic, and a crowd pleaser, and had earned him thunderous applause (and possibly a standing ovation, but Junmyeon doesn’t know for sure, because he’d loitered outside during Baekhyun’s performance, too nervous to enter the auditorium and potentially make eye contact with an unfortunate soul who’d witnessed his trainwreck.) Baekhyun was enormously talented (as well as enormously _snobbish_ ) and he was probably Junmyeon’s biggest competition besides, well...Junmyeon doesn’t want to think about _him_ at the moment.

Why is it so damn hot? The stupid suit he chose (admittedly, it made his ass look out this _world_ ) has effectively trapped in every single conceivable droplet of moisture on his body. Oh god, what if he wins and when he goes on stage, they capture photographic evidence of the sweat stains that are surely forming under his arms? _Ha, what if he wins, what a joke._ Junmyeon doesn’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t win.

The minutes drag on, unending. What do they even need to deliberate about for this long? Junmyeon begins to cycle his nervous habits. Unbutton. Button. Arrange bangs. Run hand through hair. Rearrange bangs. Fiddle with earlobe. Unbutton. 

Was the Bartók too much? Junmyeon didn’t think it was that weird - he could’ve gone with the Elliott Carter piano concerto, or the Schoenberg, and those were kind of unlistenable. Dammit, maybe the Bartók _was_ too much. Why didn’t he at least choose the 2nd concerto? It was more approachable than the fucking 1st, didn’t Bartók write it so people would actually want to listen to it? Jesus. He really should’ve just gone with Prokofiev 3. Now _that_ one was a competition winner, easy money. Fast, virtuosic, and absolutely fucking nuts - but in a good way, not nuts like his weird little mess of 20th century nonsense.

He buttons and unbuttons the third button on his shirt at least 20 times before a soft touch on the back of his hand stills him. He turns slowly to meet the worried gaze of the man sitting next to him, and attempts a weak smile.

Ah. Sehun.

Junmyeon had met Oh Sehun earlier in the semester, quite by accident, when he had outright bowled Sehun over in the midst of one of his post-breakdown runs. (Minseok loved to jokingly needle him for his weird habit of jogging around the conservatory halls whenever practice sessions got the best of him, but Junmyeon always tuned him out. Besides, he never did it during the day, when god forbid he could be _perceived_. Instead, he would resort to banging his head repeatedly into the lower octaves of the piano, but that’s not really important right now.)

It was 3am, deathly quiet, and Junmyeon hadn’t expected another human being to be anywhere near his general vicinity. So when he had turned the corner directly into 6ft of gangly limbs, sharp angles, and the broadest shoulders he had ever _seen_ , it had nearly given him a heart attack. He couldn’t slow his momentum and, after letting out a totally undignified squawk, had tumbled straight into Sehun, sending him sprawling across the linoleum. Junmyeon had launched into a thousand flustered apologies, Sehun had burst into laughter, and things had just fallen into place from there.

They had somehow remained friends even after Junmyeon found out that Sehun was competing in the competition too, probably because of Sehun’s laissez-faire attitude towards the whole affair. That, or the fact that he was a theory-comp major, and a trombonist, and Kyungsoo says that trombonists don’t usually win these kinds of things.

Sehun was eccentric, easygoing, and had a big heart hidden behind piercing eyes and glowering brows. He laughed easily, and often. He’d also witnessed Junmyeon cry in a practice room once, which meant he was in it for the long run. Junmyeon didn’t mind though, because Sehun had an excellent sense of humor, and showed up unprompted to his practice room every Thursday with his ridiculously stupid and specific coffee order.

“Hey, hyung,” Sehun says, eyes round and concerned, “are you okay?”

 _Is he okay?_ Oh sure, he’s fine, he’s just basing his entire self-worth on the results of this competition, but I mean other than that? Peachy. Really, couldn’t be better.

Junmyeon’s smile falters.

Sehun grimaces. “Ah, sorry. Dumb question.”

Junmyeon’s hands gravitate towards the third button again. Even Sehun, a _trombonist_ who theoretically posed no threat to his chances of winning, had performed marvelously well. His piece, the Rouse Trombone Concerto, was way weirder than Junmyeon’s Bartók, but Sehun was a _trombonist_ , and trombonists could get away with weird music. The crowd had gone wild after Sehun had finished, and Junmyeon _knows_ they gave him a standing ovation, because he’d promised Sehun he’d overcome his dumb self-loathing long enough to watch his performance. Had Junmyeon gotten a standing ovation? He hadn’t checked, just speedwalked offstage as fast as his too-tight pants would let him. Dammit! Why didn’t he think to gauge the decibel level of his applause? Now he has no frame of reference to compare the audience reaction of his other competitors to. Jesus.

_Kim Jongdae probably got way more applause than you, though._

Junmyeon’s hands tighten around his shirt. Button. Unbutton.

“ _Stop that,_ ” Sehun hisses, and swats Junmyeon’s hands off from where they’re worrying the third button to death.

“Sorry,” Junmyeon mumbles, but he doesn’t mean it. 

_Kim Jongdae probably got loads of applause. Unlike you, he knows how to command the stage. And Kim Jongdae doesn’t end phrases so callously, doesn’t get tripped up over long runs like you do. Idiot. You always panic in the third movement. Kim Jongdae doesn’t panic._

Junmyeon flexes his fingers. In, out, in, out. He needs to be doing something, _anything_ , or he is going to throw up onto Jinki’s designer shoes. He scrabbles around for anything to hold onto, anything to fiddle with. His pants are too tight. Sehun won’t let him touch his shirt. He digs his fingernails into his biceps until tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

Another soft touch, this time on his shoulder.

“Hyung,” Sehun says again, and nudges his hand towards Junmyeon, palm up.

Junmyeon lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Releases the vice grip on his arms. Threads his fingers through Sehun’s, and hopes Sehun doesn’t judge him for how massively sweaty his hand is. 

“You played beautifully, and you know it,” Sehun says. 

_Does he?_

There’s a clatter from backstage, and suddenly the director of the USM College-Conservatory appears, closely followed by the judging committee. Junmyeon’s grip tightens involuntarily, and he hears Sehun grunt. 

“Sorry for the delay, everyone!” the director, a short, fierce woman, says lightly. “We didn’t foresee such a fine group of participants this year! We had much to deliberate about.” She waves a small hand towards the group of professors, who all chuckle and nod.

This is it. Junmyeon feels like he’s going to pass away. 

“We are incredibly impressed with the level of artistry this year’s competitors have brought to the 48th USM Concerto Competition. This is probably the hardest decision we’ve had to make in many, many years. As always, we are so proud of our students for their dedication and talent.”

 _Yeah, except me,_ Junmyeon thinks offhandedly. Before he can stop himself. _Me and my stupid weird Bartók._

“Well, let’s not dally any longer! We are honored to announce that this year’s winner of the Concerto Competition is…”

It couldn’t be Jinki, right? He played Mozart. Baekhyun had really bad intonation on one note in the second movement; Junmyeon heard it through the door. Sehun was a _trombonist_. Kim Jongdae? Junmyeon honestly has no idea how his performance went. He was too busy dry heaving in the green room toilet.

“Kim…”

Junmyeon sucks in a breath.

“Jongdae.”

The name rings out tinny in the quiet space, hangs for an eternal breathless moment, and in that moment, Junmyeon feels some small part of himself wither away.

The crowd erupts into cheers and applause. Kim Jongdae whips his head around, back and forth, and has the audacity to look _surprised_.

Air rushes past Junmyeon’s ears. His stomach twists, turns. He can’t feel his own body anymore. He’s weightless, formless. He sees himself from behind, sitting stock still in his too-tight suit. He vaguely registers pressure on his thigh - Sehun undoubtedly rubbing soothing circles into it.

For an impossible, heavy second, Junmyeon doesn’t believe it. And then he thinks two things.

First: _Why did he fool himself into thinking he’d even have a chance at winning?_

And second: _He knew he should’ve worn his lucky shirt, the silk one with the mandarin collar._

He watches Kim Jongdae take to the stage without really seeing, listens without really hearing to the director give some lame speech about Kim Jongdae, about how great and wonderful and perfect he is, about how he’s the first vocalist in 30 years to win the competition, about how the vote was difficult but unanimous. 

Jinki is smiling impossibly wide, clapping earnestly. Baekhyun’s leapt to his feet, bouncing excitedly on his heels. Sehun claps politely, and sneaks concerned glances Junmyeon’s way.

Junmyeon sits, stock still, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

He doesn’t know why he expected anything different. If anything, this competition just solidified that he was useless, worthless, and not cut out to be called anything _near_ a musician. The voice in the back of his head taunting him throughout undergrad and a year of his Master’s had been right, and he’d ignored it and let everyone else lie to him instead.

More clapping. God, could they stop already?

A photographer snaps a couple shots of Kim Jongdae shaking hands with the director and the panel of judges. _Not a sweat stain in sight,_ Junmyeon remarks bitterly.

Finally, _finally_ , the applause dies down, Kim Jongdae comes down from the stage, and the audience starts to file out of the concert hall. The pressure returns to his thigh, and he looks over to Sehun, the beautiful, kind _idiot_ who’d given him practice room pep talks and excessive compliments and had effectively convinced Junmyeon that he had any talent at all. 

He absently watches Sehun’s mouth move - probably saying something like “you gave the best performance you could have” or “you know these things are at least a little rigged” or some other assorted bullshit. Junmyeon doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear any of it. What he wants is to run to the nearest empty room and scream, and maybe throw up, and then pretend for the next hour that he has a future at all.

Instead, he fakes a smile for Sehun, to get him to shut up (it doesn’t fool him) and stands to go congratulate the man of the hour. He lets his body carry him, left foot, right foot, to where Kim Jongdae is accepting _bravo_ ’s and flowers. He notes dully how successful he’s become at hiding how his world is crumbling about his shoulders. 

Kim Jongdae accepts his totally-sincere-and-not-forced well wishes with a bright smile and a bow. Junmyeon hates him. He hates his natural charm and his wealth of talent. He hates how opportunity seems to fall into his lap. He hates his confidence and his laugh and his breezy attitude, and he hates how much everyone loves him. And most of all, he hates that Kim Jongdae is genuinely a good person, and there’s really not much to hate about him at all.

Junmyeon congratulates Baekhyun and Jinki for good measure, and steps back to allow Sehun in to give his congratulations too. He catches sight of his piano professor, standing a couple rows back, smiling widely at him. Oh, God. She was kind, but strict, and smacked Junmyeon’s hands when he was too tense. She always encouraged him, even when she was critiquing the soul out of his body, and Junmyeon loved her. She’d been lying too, this whole time, and he’d let it happen. Even now, she’s smiling, like he didn’t just fuck up the only thing he was trying to get right this semester.

When Sehun turns back to Junmyeon, his face open and honest, it’s the final straw. Junmyeon can’t do this anymore. He whirls around and walks as fast as he can out of the auditorium, ignoring Sehun calling out behind him, shutting his professor’s smile out of his mind. As soon as he makes it to the lobby, he breaks into a run, towards the third floor bathroom, where he knows no one will be. He wrenches open the door, screams, and then throws up.

════════

Junmyeon does not touch a piano for a week after. He doesn’t touch much of anything, really, besides his bed, his phone, and the tea kettle. It’s not healthy or useful, but Junmyeon is beyond caring. If he can’t do his one marketable skill right, he might as well not do anything at all.

Monday night (Tuesday? He hasn’t left the house, the days all blur together), Sehun practically kicks his door open with two bags of straight up grease. 

“Hey hyung!” Sehun chirps. “You busy?”

Junmyeon’s first instinct is to fabricate some elaborate excuse to get Sehun to leave him alone, but he is a notoriously shitty liar, and Sehun would force his way in regardless. 

“Sorry, I’m too busy hating myself,” he blurts out instead, and starts to close the door.

Sehun wedges his foot inside before Junmyeon can close it completely. He shoves one of the grease-stained bags through the crack and exclaims, “Hey! At least take my offering of goodwill, you jerk!”

Junmyeon eyes the paper bag suspiciously. “Why are you here, Sehun?”

Sehun pries the door open wide enough to peek in. “Orders from God. He said to come over and help you feel a little better, dammit! Well, he didn’t say the dammit part.”

“Sehun, I’m Buddhist.”

Without missing a beat, Sehun says, “Orders from Buddha. He said to come over and help you feel a little better, dammit! But this time he really did say dammit.”

Junmyeon sighs. “That’s not how it- whatever. You promise no one called the risk assessment center on me again?”

Sehun solemnly crosses his heart. “Promise. Now let me in.”

The burger and fries, Junmyeon admits reluctantly, are certainly better than his current diet of decaf tea and air. Sehun watches him pick at his food: fries first, then burger. 

They eat in comfortable silence. It’s nice, and Junmyeon thinks maybe he really did need the company. Sehun says they don’t have to talk about _it_ , and so they don’t. Sehun slurps his soda extra loudly. Junmyeon throws a fry at him.

After a while, Sehun asks, “Will you be able to love music again?”

It’s direct and very, very Sehun. Junmyeon almost bursts into tears. He worries his bottom lip and replies, “Hah. Maybe.” _Probably not_ , he thinks, but hell if he’s gonna tell Sehun that. 

“I think you will,” Sehun says simply, and they lapse into silence.

After folding and unfolding his napkin for the seventeenth time, Junmyeon smacks his knees and stands up. He throws the remains of their meal away and starts organizing random items on the countertop, more for the activity than anything else. Spices alphabetical. Towels straightened. 

Sehun curls up on the couch, eyes following Junmyeon as he putters around the kitchen.

“If you don’t stop making that face, I’m going to tell the yehet story again,” Sehun warns.

That draws a small smile out of Junmyeon, and he stumbles out of the kitchen, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh, blast! My worst enemy! Please, spare me! Anything but that!” 

Unimpressed, Sehun pulls him onto the couch. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, hyung. I’m going to have to tell it to you.”

Junmyeon relents, and flops down next to Sehun, wriggling to rest his head on Sehun’s shoulder.

“Don’t fall asleep this time,” Sehun says.

“I won’t,” Junmyeon promises, and listens attentively to every detail of Sehun’s stupid, dumb story.

A week after that, he touches a piano. It doesn’t burn him, or poison him, or prick him with many tiny arrows, but he does feel a deep sadness well up within, and the tears come soon afterwards.

 _Baby steps_ , Sehun assures him.

════════

When Junmyeon returns for the spring semester, he tells himself that it’s just to finish his stupid, undeserved degree, and maybe to avoid disappointing his piano professor, who still smiles at him and smacks his hands when he’s too tense. No one asks him to leave, and so he stays, even though he doesn’t belong. He stays, to finish his stupid, undeserved degree, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

════════

Sehun convinces him to attend a new music ensemble rehearsal, just once, and Junmyeon listens, because it’s “really lowkey, and the members are funny people, you’ll love them,” and Sehun can be damn persuasive when he wants to be. He knows it’s a thinly veiled excuse to drag him out of his self-induced wallowing, but he listens, because it’s better than being alone with his thoughts in a practice room, and it’s _Sehun_.

That’s how Junmyeon finds himself full-on sprinting through the hallways of the conservatory proper, dodging the last dregs of students still loitering about after afternoon classes have ended. He skids around the corner to the rehearsal wing, nearly knocking over someone in the process.

“Woah, Junmyeon,” the figure laughs. “Got somewhere to be?” 

It’s Sehun, looking quite calm for someone who is also two, approaching three minutes late to rehearsal. Junmyeon flushes and makes to shove past him. Perhaps _he_ can afford to be late, but first impressions are everything to Junmyeon and he does _not_ want any member of that ensemble to think he is some sort of lazy, undedicated, worthless piece of shit musician and oh my god now he’s three minutes late they’re going to give him such looks of condescension when he-

“If you’re worried about being late, it’s okay,” Sehun says, lightly touching Junmyeon’s arm as he passes. “Like I said, we’re really chill. And plus,” he grins mischievously, “we won’t be nearly as late as _that person_.”

Sehun leads him to the rehearsal space, and when they finally enter, _three and a half minutes late_ , it’s absolute chaos. Junmyeon catches familiar faces here and there - Park Chanyeol is carefully unpacking his trumpet in one corner, and Kyungsoo’s small frame is all but obscured by a ridiculously complicated percussion setup. To his surprise, he sees Byun Baekhyun, of all people, tuning and re-tuning his violin in the back of the room. Why had none of them ever mentioned this to him before?

Sehun makes quick work of introducing Junmyeon to the members he doesn’t already know, explaining that their oboist is out sick. Junmyeon doesn’t have to ask to know it’s Jinki, because _of course_ it’s Jinki, as every single one of his competitors in the damned Concerto Competition is in this ensemble apparently.

Just as everyone seems to settle into their usual places, the door swings open roughly, and Kim _fucking_ Jongdae bursts in, breathing heavily. Junmyeon reflexively flinches, the wound still very much fresh. _Of course_ , he thinks, _of course_ . He forgives Sehun for the massive oversight of forgetting to mention that the bane of Junmyeon’s existence is in this ensemble (but only because it’s _Sehun_ ) and concentrates on doing the breathing exercise his therapist gave him for situations of unexpected panic.

In, hold. Out, hold.

No one seems the least bit surprised as Jongdae chirps, “Sorry I’m late!” and the rehearsal commences at exactly ten past 5.

_______

“So,” Sehun begins, “I thought it might be fun to try and sightread something today. What does everyone think about Terry Riley’s _In C_? Any other suggestions?”

“How about _Clapping Music_?” Chanyeol offers, spinning a valve into place. “That might be a fun one.”

Kyungsoo mutters under his breath, “Leave it to the jazz major to suggest fucking _Reich_.”

“Oh?!” Chanyeol’s trumpet clatters into his seat as he jumps up and cups his ear towards Kyungsoo, their height difference almost comical. “What was that, Mr. Do Kyungsoo, sir? Would you care to repeat it for the class?”

Kyungsoo, unfazed, ignores him. “What’s with all the minimalist shit? When are we finally going to play Varèse?”

The whole room groans, and Junmyeon sees Sehun stifle a grin into his hand. Clearly, Kyungsoo asks this question regularly.

“When we all magically become good percussionists, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol counters. “Besides, I thought _Clapping Music_ would be easier to put together - we got a new guy with us today, and I’m pretty sure all of us can clap.”

Without missing a beat, Kyungsoo says drily, “I don’t believe Baekhyun can,” and Baekhyun looks absolutely _scandalized_. 

Before he can utter a scathing retort, a violist with delicate features pipes up, “I still think we should flip things on their head and go absolutely bonkers.” His face splits into a goofy grin. “Hear me out - we play some early music. Like it’s opposite day or something. I have the scores to some Buxtehude cantatas if you losers want to bust ‘em out,” he says, and descends into a fit of giggles as the clarinetist next to him, the hulking mass of one Choi Minho, gives him a resounding smack and yells, “Kibum, my fucking _GOD_ ! You just want to play the damn crumhorn, don’t you! You just want any excuse for me to pull out my _fucking_ crumhorn!”

Across the room, the ensemble’s bassoonist, who Junmyeon recognizes as Zhang Yixing, raises a solemn hand from where he’s perched on the edge of his chair. “Kibum has a point. It would be quite fun to switch it up once in a while. And lest we forget, early music was once new music,” he adds, and promptly loses his balance, sending him splaying out onto the floor in a rather spectacular display. Kibum is totally inconsolable then, his whole body wracking with peals of laughter. It’s infectious, and soon the whole room is cracking up, Chanyeol beating a bruise into the unfortunate soul who decided to sit next to him. Even Kyungsoo is near full-on _cackling_. Junmyeon has never been more bewildered in his life.

When the laughter dies down, Sehun wipes his eyes and says, “I chose _In C_ specifically because it’s for a fluid ensemble, it’s not tightly organized, and as long as you’re in the key of C, nothing catastrophic will happen. And if anyone is particularly pressed,” Sehun adds, looking sidelong at Junmyeon, “they can be The Pulse.”

The ensemble rumbles with murmurs of agreement.

“I appreciate everyone’s suggestions, though, no matter how stupid,” Sehun continues. “Any objections to _In C_?”

The room is silent.

After a beat, Baekhyun says fondly, “Ah, just as expected of our glue, Sehunnie,” right as Jongdae screams, “I LOVE THE KEY OF C!” directly into his ear.

Sehun claps once, and the ensemble springs into motion, and suddenly Junmyeon is twenty minutes into a piece of indeterminable length, beating C’s over and over, and still no less bewildered than when he first arrived.

He doesn’t think he could get used to this.

════════

“I am utterly befuddled,” Junmyeon says to Minseok over steaming bowls of fried rice. “They are possibly the most eccentric group of people I have ever been privy to. Nuts. Absolutely nuts.”

“Mhm,” his roommate hums into his spoon. Minseok usually holed himself up in his room most of the time he was home, busily compiling and recompiling research, but always made an effort to join Junmyeon for dinner when their schedules lined up. Though Minseok was technically one and half years into a pharmD, he was, per Junmyeon’s passionate assertion, the best traverso player this side of the globe. 

“I’m serious!” Junmyeon exclaims. “I mean, Kyungsoo’s in there, which isn’t a surprise, but Chanyeol? Byun Baekhyun?!”

“I don’t know these people,” Minseok says.

“Not to mention Kim _fucking_ Jongdae,” Junmyeon mutters, and shoves another spoonful of rice into his mouth.

“Kim fucking Jongdae, huh,” Minseok murmurs. He at least knows that name. Junmyeon has the unfortunate habit of comparing himself to _exalted god of music_ Kim Jongdae whenever it comes up in conversation. Which it does, _a lot_.

“One moment, they were all screaming composers over each other, and the next, we were halfway through a piece - before I even had a chance to _breathe_ , Minseok! To _breathe_!”

“But you played with them, right?”

Junmyeon chews his rice in silence.

 _Baby steps,_ Sehun’s voice tells him.

“You’re going to join them again next week, aren’t you?” Minseok says.

Junmyeon chokes a little. “Now wait a second, when did I say _THAT_?!” he sputters. Minseok shakes his head and smiles into his bowl.

“You didn’t. Just a hunch.”

Junmyeon joins them again next week.

When he shows up at the next rehearsal, a George Crumb score is laid neatly on the piano, with his name scrawled messily onto a sticky note on top. Sehun pretends like he didn’t pick it out just for him, and Junmyeon sees right through it.

════════

“Sehun,” Junmyeon asks as he starts up a pot of tea, “do you hate anything?”

Sehun blows out a soft breath. “Junmyeon, that’s an odd question.”

“Well? Do you?”

Sehun mulls it over, taps his fingers rhythmically on the countertop. “I suppose I do.”

“Like what?” Junmyeon asks, pulling two old mugs from the cabinet. Sentimental mugs, the pictures of bunnies and flowers printed on them faded and worn. They were special, and he only used them when he really needed the comfort of old, nostalgia-tinged memories.

“Durians, maybe. Conflict. Losing at games,” Sehun offers. 

Junmyeon delicately scoops tea into the tea infusers - herbal for him, black tea for Sehun. It honestly didn’t matter what kind of tea he gave him, the guy put so much milk and sugar in it that the type of tea became a moot point. 

“What about- ” The words catch in Junmyeon’s throat. “What about people?”

Sehun shrugs. “Oh, sure. Like that creep of an accompanist at school. Wish he wouldn’t look at students that way, it’s honestly disgusting.”

“Ah,” Junmyeon says. Sehun watches him arrange the tea infusers rather uselessly. Junmyeon hates how his hands start to shake. “That makes- that makes sense. He really is gross. They should, um, fire him.”

“Yeah, they should,” Sehun echoes. He pushes off the countertop and nestles himself behind Junmyeon, chin on his shoulder, hands braced lightly on the counter. Sehun liked skinship. He liked closeness. Junmyeon was okay with it, because it always came at the right moment.

“Sehun,” Junmyeon tries. “Sehun, do you ever hate a person for no reason? A genuinely good person, who’s done nothing to deserve it at all?”

“Ah, I know what this is about,” Sehun responds.

The tea kettle whistles sharply. Junmyeon absently watches the steam pour out, the blue flame flicker steadily beneath. Sehun reaches over and switches off the burner.

“Maybe you don’t really hate them,” he says.

The tea kettle sits untouched. The minutes tick by on the clock above the stove.

“Sehun,” Junmyeon says to the tea kettle, “what if you hate yourself?”

“Oh, Jun,” he replies, softly, tenderly, catching Junmyeon as he sags and all of the insecurities bubble out of him in great, rolling waves. “Oh, Jun.”

════════

2 and a half months after the proverbial end of Junmyeon’s life, the USM NewMusic ensemble plays a concert. They’re not the only performers - the concert is some sort of commemorative anniversary thing - but it’s still enough pressure that Junmyeon takes four separate laps around the third floor hallway the night before the performance. 

The members all punch each other affectionately before they take to the stage - some tradition that leaves Junmyeon’s shoulders stinging and his heart just a little bit lighter.

Somehow, some way, he survives. He chalks it up to the fact that the way the ensemble is set up, he’s in the back, hidden behind the piano lid. Just a faceless, anonymous nobody plunking on the keys occasionally. (This isn’t true, everyone can totally see him, but Junmyeon refuses to acknowledge that or else he really will die onstage.)

Or maybe (and this reason is a little more far-fetched) it’s because Junmyeon trusts the members, and they seem to trust him too, and that’s enough to keep Junmyeon afloat until the final chord of their set.

Either way, 2 and a half months after the proverbial end of Junmyeon’s life, he performs publicly, and _survives_ \- and he only throws up once, 10 minutes before the concert starts.

 _Baby steps_ , Sehun would say.

════════

Junmyeon smiles more easily now as Kibum does his best impression of the Rite of Spring, complete with accompaniment by the esteemed Byun Philharmonic Orchestra. He watches with mild concern as Chanyeol and Jongdae join him, stomping perilously close to the edge of the stage. 

The virgin sacrifice is rudely interrupted by a loud bang from the back of the auditorium. Sehun practically busts through the doorway, waving a piece of paper wildly above his head. “Guys, I got something important!” he crows.

Kibum frowns. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol says, looking kind of put out. “What could be more important than the Rite of Spring?”

Sehun ignores them and jogs up the stairs to the stage. “Check it out!” he wheezes, and then promptly sprawls out on the floor, letting the slip of paper fall from his hand.

“Weak,” Kyungsoo scoffs, to no one in particular.

Jongdae abandons his dubious attempt at ballet and stoops to pick up the paper.

“Ohoho, is this what I think it is?” he trills. “Let’s see, let’s see. Oh man, there’s Chanyeol’s name! _Park Chanyeol sucks and is awful at trumpet-_ ” 

“ _WHAT_ ,” Chanyeol interrupts, and runs over to squint over Jongdae’s shoulder. 

Junmyeon looks to Jinki for context.

“Review,” Jinki offers simply.

Junmyeon stiffens. Did he hear correctly? A review? Jesus. He should’ve known there’d be critics; the conservatory was a hot topic in town, and most concerts had articles published about them one way or another. Plus, the concert they’d played was a commemorative thing, celebrating some famous alumnus or another, so _of course_ the critics would come out of the woodwork for it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Jinki looks concerned. “Junmyeon, is everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Junmyeon responds, trying to keep his voice from quivering. “Just, you know, never been reviewed before.”

 _Did the concerto competition have critics? Did someone write a scathing review of his stupid dumb performance then?_ His heart seizes. He’d never thought about that possibility. He bites his lip until he tastes iron.

“Uh, have you,” Junmyeon tries. “Has this ensemble gotten a review before?”

Jinki smiles. “Oh yeah! A couple times. It was really stressful at first, but we’ve found ways to make it more fun. Plus, it helps me knowing that it’s all subjective anyways. We got a bad review once from some guy who literally just didn’t like John Adams.”

“Oh.” Junmyeon lets out a breath. He knows Jinki is just trying to help, but he still feels closer to throwing up. 

On the other end of the stage, Chanyeol wrestles Jongdae for the article, rather futilely. 

“Play nice, assholes,” Sehun says from the floor.

Chanyeol pretends to step on him.

“Will someone read the goddamn _REVIEW_!” Minho bursts out, and Jongdae and Chanyeol immediately stop fighting.

Jongdae clears his throat melodramatically. “Come one, come all, to hear a marvelous telling of some rando’s opinion on our musical endeavors!” 

Everyone gathers closer to Jongdae. Sehun hops up from the floor and takes up a place behind Junmyeon, sliding his arms around Junmyeon’s shoulders. Chanyeol hovers close behind Jongdae, to make sure he doesn’t pull any funny business.

_In, hold. Out, hold._

“Don’t worry, Jun,” Sehun reassures him quietly. “I snuck a peek at the review earlier, and it’s glowing.”

It’s not much, but it does prolong his inevitable meltdown for the moment.

“The USM NewMusic Ensemble certainly picked an unconventional program for the night’s occasion,” Jongdae reads, “but their commitment to musical dynamicism and general cohesion as a group cast aside all my doubts in programming.”

“Park Chanyeol,” and with this, he throws Chanyeol a shit-eating grin, “in particular, showed remarkable versatility...”

The reviewer goes on to critique the performance of individual members, and Sehun is right, it’s glowing. They praise Jinki for his subtlety in articulation, Sehun for his conducting, Minho for his vigor and sharp contrasts. Jongdae makes a show of reading his own mention, quite haughtily, until Baekhyun kicks him. He has every right to drag it out. The reviewer fawns over Kim Jongdae, his rich voice, his emotive genius, his vast array of characters. Of course they love him. _Of course_.

Junmyeon can feel his breath shallow and quicken. He’s quite done with all of this. He secretly hopes that the critic forgot about him, or perhaps deemed his performance so delightfully unremarkable that nothing could be said about it at all. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the rise and fall of Sehun’s chest pressed into his back.

_In, hold. Out, hold._

Yixing and Kibum blend elegantly.

Baekhyun shocks with a commanding stage presence.

 _And Kim Junmyeon sits in the back and hides behind his piano, plinking out dinky little grace notes with no finesse whatsoever._ _Who let that idiot play piano?_

Was that all of them? Was the review finished? 

“Ah!” Jongdae says suddenly. “Listen to this: Kim Junmyeon- ”

Junmyeon’s eyes snap open. Oh god, oh no, please stop talking, _right now_.

Before he can react further, Jongdae says, “-serves as the backbone of the whole ensemble - his brilliant expression reflects across the group. He senses gaps and fills them gracefully. I am honestly quite shocked with the level of responsiveness in Mr. Kim’s touch; whereas all the other players functioned beautifully on their own, Mr. Kim brought the ensemble together. His connection to the conductor is apparent and commendable; they are the glue that holds the ensemble intact.”

For a moment, Junmyeon does not say anything. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. _Kim Jongdae is making this up. This can’t be true. This is all a ruse to spite him_.

Baekhyun breaks the silence. “Wow, check that out! Sehunnie, Junmyeon’s giving you a run for your money!”

“Who will be given the title of USM NewMusic Ensemble’s Glue now?” Yixing inquires gravely.

Sehun straightens, claps his hands on Junmyeon’s shoulders. “We have to duel for it,” he deadpans.

“You will most definitely lose, Sehun,” Chanyeol says. 

“Yeah, my money’s on Junmyeon,” Kibum agrees.

Sehun sputters in protest.

“Wha- ” Junmyeon finally manages to get out, but Jongdae’s already started reading again.

Sehun’s arms slip back around Junmyeon’s shoulders, his hands coming to rest, clasped, on Junmyeon’s chest. 

_They weren’t lying to him? They- they relied on him? And some rando thought he could play...and play well? It can’t be true. They’re lying. Are they?_

“Told you it was glowing, hyung,” Sehun whispers, breath ghosting his ear, and it’s like electricity down Junmyeon’s spine. He shivers. The room suddenly seems uncomfortably warm.

_Chanyeol was there to make sure Jongdae didn’t pull a prank. He would’ve said something. Right? Unless he was in on it too. Ah, but Chanyeol wouldn’t go for such a cruel prank. Would he? Wow, Sehun is very warm._

That last thought, he thinks, is completely unwarranted.

“You should listen to me more often,” Sehun says, quieter, and his voice is edged with something Junmyeon can’t place.

Whatever comes out of Jongdae’s mouth next is a complete and total blur.

“Well?” Kyungsoo says uncomfortably into the silence that follows. He shifts from foot to foot, looking - oh, dare it be said? - vaguely _nervous_. “Did they not write anything about me?”

Jongdae’s eyes have that mischievous glint to them, that special look reserved solely for when he’s pranking Kyungsoo, and his catlike mouth breaks into a terrific grin.

“Oh, JD, _give me that_ ,” Chanyeol huffs, and plucks the review deftly from Jongdae’s hands, holding it easily out of his reach. Jongdae bursts into uncontrollable laughter then, loud and stuttering, and he throws a hand over his mouth to stifle it when he sees Kyungsoo’s frown deepen. There’s a weighted silence as Chanyeol’s gaze skims across the paper. Finally, he reads:

“Much can be said about the marvelous control and range of the ensemble’s main percussionist, Do Kyungsoo. From the delicate ambiance of Crumb’s _Dream Sequence_ to the raw energy of the Varèse, Mr. Do shows us a deep, intrinsic understanding of what it means to be a percussionist. He navigates the complexity of the works with fluid grace, and his ear is always listening far ahead.”

Relief flits plainly across Kyungsoo’s face, just for a moment, and then his gaze hardens again. “Kim Jongdae, you fucking _ASSHOLE_!” he yells, and lunges towards the vocalist, who skitters away with a loud, wheezing laugh, ducking behind Chanyeol to avoid the Mighty Wrath of Do Kyungsoo.

“Well how about that, Soo, you’re famous! Look at you,” Baekhyun says, and slings his arm around Kyungsoo’s quivering shoulders.

Kyungsoo slaps his hand away and snaps, “You have neither the privilege to touch me nor to shorten my name endearingly, Byun Baekhyun,” and the room explodes into laughter.

════════

“Minseok,” Junmyeon says that night over steaming plates of fried chicken. “I think they like me.”

“Mhm,” his roommate hums into his chopsticks.

“I’m serious!” Junmyeon continues. “Even Kim Jongdae.”

“Even Kim Jongdae,” Minseok echoes. He takes another bite. “Of course they like you, Junmyeon. Why would they not?”

Junmyeon thinks about it all night.

════════

Sehun takes him to the art museum, the fancy one downtown. It’s a surprise. A pop-up Van Gogh exhibit was in town, and Sehun somehow found out about it before Junmyeon did. He’d even grabbed Junmyeon a decaf latte (with coconut milk, they were out of soy) on his way to pick him up from his apartment. Junmyeon insists on paying the museum entrance fee, in return for the coffee, and from the way Sehun grins, maybe that was his plan all along.

They say very little, just wander from painting to painting. When Sehun slips his hand into Junmyeon’s, it feels very natural.

They end up in front of _At Eternity’s Gate_. Sehun perches himself on the bench nearby and pats the seat next to him. They sit and contemplate the work for a long while, in companionable silence.

Finally, Junmyeon speaks. “Sehun, how do you feel like enough?”

Sehun says, “Enough?”

“I’m not even talking enough for society,” Junmyeon continues. “Just enough for yourself.”

“Ah.” Sehun leans back on his palms and tilts his head, examining the painting from a new angle. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Maybe...I feel like enough when I’ve done all I can, done all I want, and I’m happy. It helps knowing I’ve done it for myself.“

Junmyeon mutters, “You’re a trombonist, of course you can say that.”

Sehun laughs. “What makes you think a pianist can’t feel the same way?”

Junmyeon doesn’t have an answer.

Sehun goes on, “Besides, I wasn’t talking only about music. When I don’t burn my eggs in the morning, I feel like enough.”

Junmyeon is silent.

“What, hyung?” Sehun teases. “Still burn your eggs in the morning?”

Junmyeon just jostles his shoulder.

Sehun tilts his head to the other side. “I don’t really have a better answer. Honestly, if I’m happy, then I’m enough.”

“What if you’re generally unhappy?” Junmyeon asks.

“No one is unhappy all the time. There’s always brightness. Like now. In this moment, we are both enough.”

They resume sitting quietly. Junmyeon rests his head on Sehun’s shoulder, and takes in every brush stroke, every sweep of color.

After another long while, Junmyeon says, “Sehun, in his lifetime, I don’t think Van Gogh ever thought he was enough.”

“No,” Sehun agrees. “But I wish he did.”

════════

Mid-semester brings the concerto competition winner showcase, Jongdae’s _moment._

Junmyeon hadn’t planned on going, of course, had even childishly refused to mark the date on his calendar. But when Sehun and Chanyeol show up that morning and invite him ( _re: force him_ ) out to purchase a congratulatory gift for Jongdae, he agrees to it, and even chips in extra for an extravagant card and an oversized bouquet of flowers. Pretends he’s doing this just to appease Sehun and Chanyeol, or maybe to assuage his guilty conscience. Still plans to weasel his way out of attending the concert.

But come 7pm, he’s secured front row seats under orders from Baekhyun, and when he holds Jongdae’s hand through a massive panic attack right before the performance, in a lonely corner backstage, Junmyeon starts to reconsider all of his previous misconceptions of Kim Jongdae. He was human after all, just like everyone else.

_______

After the concert, the ensemble swarms Jongdae, gathering him up in a bone-crushing group hug. “You _guys_ ,” he sniffles into the flowers, misty-eyed, before barking, “It’s allergy season you _jerks!_ ” when they start to tease him for it.

“Thank you, Junmyeon,” Jongdae says quietly while the group plans where to head for commemorative drinks. “For a second, I really didn’t think I could go onstage.”

Junmyeon averts his eyes, tries not to think of the countless nights he’d bemoaned Kim Jongdae’s existence. “It was nothing. You know. Yeah.”

“Not many of my friends could deal with it the way you did,” Jongdae presses. “That was the worst episode I’ve had in months.”

Junmyeon shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, well. I’ve been there.”

When Jongdae smiles, it’s all sunshine and spring blossoms. “You’re a good soul, Junmyeon.”

 _No,_ Junmyeon thinks, _I’m really not_.

“And if you ever find yourself in the same situation,” Jongdae continues, “I’m just a phone call away. We anxious musicians gotta stick together, man, it’s hard out there.”

The guilt in Junmyeon’s chest twists, _hard_ , stretched unbelievably taut. Something deep within him snaps, and before he can fully process it, he’s throwing his arms around Jongdae, swallowing his former worst enemy into a tight embrace. 

Sehun was right. Maybe he didn’t really hate Kim Jongdae.

Maybe he really just hated himself.

The path to forgiveness is slow, tenuous, and oftentimes painful, but Junmyeon knows if he doesn’t start somewhere, his heart will only grow heavier. Continue to drag him down. He’s already been at the bottom, and has no plans to return. Kim Jongdae isn’t a bad person, was _never_ a bad person, and Junmyeon hopes that maybe someday in the future, Jongdae can forgive him too.

“Okay,” he whispers, throat tight, and he can feel Jongdae grin into his shoulder.

 _It’s allergy season,_ _dammit_ , he tells the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

════════

Thursday morning. Sehun’s face in the practice room window.

“Your abomination against the art of coffee, sire,” he says loftily when Junmyeon opens the door. It’s the same thing he says every time, but today it sits buzzing in Junmyeon’s stomach, giddy. It makes Junmyeon want to ask him to say more things, other things, weird things that he shouldn’t be asking a friend to say at all.

Junmyeon files that thought away for later. (By later, he means never - what the hell was that? Yet another ridiculous and stupid thought in a line of ridiculous and stupid thoughts from one Kim Junmyeon.)

He files that thought away for later, and then thinks about it for the rest of the week.

════════

When Junmyeon slips into the rehearsal room that evening, he’s three and a half minutes late, and he still feels slightly guilty about it - _but only slightly_ , because if Kim Jongdae can get away with being ten minutes late to every rehearsal, surely they can deal with Junmyeon dragging his sorry ass in there three and half minutes past five. Perhaps they’ll even christen him with a funny nickname about it, if it becomes a regular enough occurrence - though technically Chanyeol already had seniority on a three-minute related one. 

_“Three minutes and one second, they started calling me,” Chanyeol had laughed, pulling up an ancient 144p video of his old high school jazz band. Sure enough, precisely three minutes and one second into a grainy performance of Whiplash, the camera had panned back far enough to reveal a hidden fifth trumpet player. Chanyeol had paused the video and exclaimed excitedly, “That’s me! That’s me!” pointing to approximately ten pixels worth of footage. “I was doubling fourth trumpet,” he had admitted, rather sheepishly, and everyone had laughed._

It doesn’t matter how late Junmyeon is, anyways, because the members are screwing around, two minutes into the world’s dumbest rendition of Knee 5 from Philip Glass’s _Einstein on the Beach_ . Sehun’s hooked up the synthesizer and is poking out the bassline determinedly with all the grace of someone who barely passed Intro to Piano (that is to say, a chicken with a rough grasp of where notes are _supposed_ to be.) Yixing and Chanyeol are standing at opposite ends of the space, reciting gibberish in mock seriousness. Jinki is boasting an impressive falsetto, Minho singing alongside him in a _slightly-less-than-impressive, but-nevertheless-confident_ falsetto. Someone had the bright idea to apply copious amounts of reverb to their already-unnecessary mics, thus transforming the room into a sort of bastard noraebang. It’s all ridiculous and stupid, but what’s more ridiculously stupid is the warmth that starts in his toes and blooms outward from Junmyeon’s chest.

Kyungsoo has sequestered himself in his percussion setup, sulking. He’s probably taken this impromptu performance of “minimalist shit” as a personal affront, as though the ensemble hadn’t finally given in to his incessant pestering and programmed Varèse on their last concert. Junmyeon sees him flinch as a particularly piercing “1, 2, 3, 4” pingpongs around the room.

It’s obvious that Kyungsoo isn’t going to budge from behind his wall of chimes any time soon, so Junmyeon pulls up a chair and resigns himself to playing the role of spellbound audience. It becomes increasingly difficult to fake a rapt expression as the piece rolls on, especially when he realizes that Yixing and Chanyeol aren’t speaking gibberish after all, but rather the lyrics to Smash Mouth’s _All Star_.

After some time, Baekhyun joins in, and Junmyeon spots Kyungsoo noticeably perk up out of the corner of his eye. He bites his tongue to hide a smile, instead focusing on Kibum picking his way solemnly to the front of the ensemble.

 _“The day with its cares and perplexities is ended and the night is now upon us,”_ Kibum monotones in a near-perfect impression of the narrator in the Philip Glass Ensemble. He’s wearing the silliest outfit Junmyeon’s seen him in yet, all loud colors and beads and fake feathers. Baekhyun’s begun to dance circles around Kibum, and Junmyeon doesn’t know what to do with all the fondness pushing at the edges of his heart. It’s a weird feeling. It should be setting off all sorts of alarm bells. Normally it would.

_“The night should be a time of peace and tranquility, a time to relax and be calm. We have need of a soothing story to banish the disturbing thoughts of the day, to set at rest our troubled minds, and put at ease our ruffled spirits.”_

Junmyeon feels Kyungsoo creep up behind him, dragging a chair into place as softly as he can. What would prompt Kyungsoo to disregard his personal vendetta against minimalism, he can only infer.

_“And what sort of story shall we hear? Ah, it will be a familiar story, a story that is so very, very old, and yet it is so new. It is the old, old story of love.”_

Kibum launches into the familiar story of two lovers on a park bench, holding hands in the moonlight. Chanyeol begins an interpretive dance from his corner of the room. On the other side of the space, Yixing macarena’s reverently, his face so somber and sincere that Junmyeon can’t help but quirk a smile. The fondness pushes a little more insistently. He tells it to go away.

_“...so profound was their love for each other, they needed no words to express it...”_

Junmyeon wonders absently how long the piece was supposed to last again. Minho’s slightly-less-than-impressive, but-nevertheless-confident falsetto is beginning to falter on him, his voice growing pitchy and thin. It’s starting to give Junmyeon a headache.

_“...I love you more than tongue can tell. You are the light of my life, my sun, moon and stars. You are my everything. Without you I have no reason for being…”_

Junmyeon’s eyes flicker to Sehun; he’s utterly absorbed in what he’s doing, and it’s kind of _really fucking adorable_ (Junmyeon has this thought often, especially lately, but always shuts it down. It isn’t his fault Oh Sehun looks like that, anyways.) The way his dainty little lips purse in thought, the way his elegant fingers poke at the keys, the way his hair falls loosely into his eyes, and the way he blows it out of his face...aren’t trombonists supposed to be kinda dorky looking? Junmyeon had never met a trombonist that wasn’t a super nerd.

Why is he thinking this?

It’s not his fault. He didn’t make Oh Sehun look like that, anyways.

_“...Count the stars in the sky. Measure the waters of the oceans with a teaspoon. Number the grains of sand on the sea shore. Impossible, you say. Yes, and it is just as impossible for me to say how much I love you…”_

Sehun lifts his eyes from where he’s been concentrating, and his gaze lands on Junmyeon. Junmyeon doesn’t notice for a second, he’s too busy doing the very important work of mentally fixing the strands of hair stuck in Sehun’s eyelashes, but then he _does_ , and he nearly chokes.

_Look away! Look away, you clown of a man!_

He can’t. 

Sehun’s eyes bore into him. Junmyeon is certain Sehun knows what he’s been thinking, and that’s not something anyone should be privy to. He only thinks ridiculous and stupid things, like maybe how Sehun has _surprisingly pretty eyes_ , and _a really strong jaw_ , and he maybe _looks like a Greek god, just a little_ . Junmyeon thinks these things, because he can’t stop himself, and then panics, because everyone is looking at him and ( _unconfirmed, but possible_ ) can hear all these thoughts telepathically.

The moment stretches on, molasses-thick.

 _These are normal things to think about,_ Junmyeon tells himself. _Everybody has a minor crisis about their friend during Philip Glass’s Einstein on the Beach at least once._

Sehun’s cheeks look a little pink, and it’s kind of _really fucking adorable._ It’s probably his imagination, or the fact that the room is stiflingly warm, but either way, Junmyeon might have a heart attack.

_Steady, Junmyeon. This is normal._

He manages to collect his ridiculous and stupid thoughts well enough to give Sehun a weak smile and a thumbs up, because that’s what normal people do. He hopes to every higher power in the world that he isn’t beet red, but at least he can blame it on the stiflingly hot room. Everything is great. Just peachy.

Then, Sehun hits a wrong note, and his little tongue pokes out of his mouth in frustration, and whatever Kibum says next is lost to Junmyeon’s post-heart attack haze.

Suddenly, Chanyeol trips and careens into some chairs with a loud yell and a spectacular crash, and the spell ends. Minho screams _heavily amplified and reverbed_ laughter into his mic, causing Chanyeol to jump and fall over even more. Kyungsoo covers his ears, his face twisted half into a grimace and half into a huge smile. Baekhyun plays a comedy sound effect on his violin, and the _heavily amplified and reverbed_ laughter doubles as Kibum loses his composure as well. Against all odds, Yixing is still macarena-ing reverently in his corner of the room.

Sehun looks directly at Junmyeon and winks. Or at least he tries to. It comes out as more of an awkward half-blink, and it’s kind of _really fucking adorable_.

Before he can stop himself, Junmyeon feels his own face split into an enormous grin, and then he’s laughing, loud and joyous; it’s the kind of laugh that’s a little ugly and reserved only for people he trusts, and it scares him just a little.

Amidst all the chaos, the door swings open, and a bright voice calls out, “Sorry I’m late!”

════════

_“My love for you is higher than the heavens, deeper than Hades, and broader than the earth. It has no limits, no bounds. Everything must have an ending, except my love for you.”_

════════

The door to the rehearsal space slams open with a loud crack, right as Junmyeon is halfway through his usual warm-up. He starts, and his palms slip ungracefully onto the keys. A cacophonous cluster chord bounces around the room.

“Ah, _klangfarben_...” Baekhyun swoons, and Kyungsoo smacks him.

Junmyeon flushes, utters a short apology, and glances at his watch. Only 6 minutes past five. It couldn’t be...?

It’s not.

“Your majesties have arrived!” an unfamiliar voice announces. 

“Go home,” Kibum shoots back, at the same time as Jinki jumps up and exclaims, “Taemin!” 

Taemin’s hair bounces adorably as he bounds down the steps towards Jinki and is swept into a hug. Behind him, another man enters more shyly, locks tucked into an unfairly cute plush hat with bear ears. Junmyeon recognizes him as Kim Jongin, starchild of the dance program and one of two and a half people Kyungsoo actually tolerated. (Junmyeon only counted himself as half of a person, since he was on thin ice with Kyungsoo most of the time. The other person was, of course, Kyungsoo’s mother.)

Taemin and Jongin are lithe and agile, all legs, and walk with a poise that can only be practiced. They must be the dancers collaborating with the ensemble on Sehun’s new composition, which he lovingly called a _micro-ballet_. (Composers and their weird colloquialisms. Unfairly adorable.) Sehun had been trying to get this piece programmed on a premiere performance concert for ages, but he could never find a pianist willing or able to work on it. At least, that’s what Sehun had told him, when Junmyeon had nearly lost his marbles over the huge, exposed piano solo Sehun had written into the middle of the piece.

Jongin is shy and sweet, and has the most marvelous laugh. Taemin takes any opportunity to dunk on the other members, especially Kibum. They fit perfectly into the ensemble, like they’ve always been a part of it. Junmyeon senses that their motley crew (he’s still too afraid to call it a _family_ ) has just grown a little larger, and he dutifully ignores the pale warmth unfurling from somewhere behind his heart.

════════

Jongin and Taemin fit in, he realizes later, just as easily as he had.

════════

“Ohoho,” Jongdae carols, poking the exposed strip of skin near Junmyeon’s belly button, “now how did you manage to get this?”

Junmyeon jolts, and his sweater gets stuck around his ears. “Jongdae! You can’t just do that!”

Jongdae just cackles as Junmyeon tugs the rest of his sweater off.

“To tell the truth, and - swear you won’t tell anybody,” Junmyeon says. Jongdae swears. “It’s because I take a lap around the hallway every time I have a practice room breakdown.”

“Ah, I see, I see,” Jongdae muses. “Interesting. Usually I just scream really loud, and pass it off as a vocal warm-up.”

“But what if there are people around?” Junmyeon asks.

“Then I resort to banging my head repeatedly into the lower octaves of the piano,” Jongdae answers with a bright laugh, to which Junmyeon sputters and says _no way, me too, are you serious?_

Kim Jongdae really _was_ human, after all.

════════

In the background, some ridiculously fast Latin jazz rings out tinny and harsh, blasting at full volume from Chanyeol’s shitty phone speakers. The chair beneath him squeaks as he bobs his head furiously to the beat, face marred by an expression Junmyeon had come to learn meant the music was “killin’.”

“My God, Chanyeol,” Sehun drawls, “Can you shut that thing up?”

“But,” Chanyeol protests, eyes wide, “it’s _Arturo Sandoval_. And he’s playing without a mouthpiece!”

Sehun tosses him a pointed look from underneath razor-sharp brows, and Chanyeol swallows his next complaint. 

“No fun allowed,” he mutters under his breath, and dutifully switches off the YouTube video.

Chanyeol’s in a bad mood for the rest of the rehearsal. They have days like this. Not often, but they still hit Junmyeon like a sack of bricks. He’s no good with this conflict stuff.

First Minho plays a rhythm wrong, more than once, and then Baekhyun comes in out of tune, and Chanyeol loses it. Kyungsoo nearly hops over his marimba to defend Baekhyun ( _well maybe_ you’re _the one out of tune, Chanyeol_ ), Yixing tries to interject with a valid criticism, and the room devolves into a shouting match.

Well, except Kibum, who sits primly, viola in his lap, sipping at his iced coffee.

Junmyeon folds into the piano, and tries to make himself very, very small.

“You lot are acting so _senseless_!” Sehun snaps. “Shut up! Shut up! Have you already forgotten!? What are we?”

Chanyeol glares at him. Minho glares at Chanyeol. Kyungsoo slowly releases his chokehold on Yixing, but none of them respond.

Sehun gives them his best pout. “I said, _what are we?_ ”

“We are one,” the group intones dejectedly, except for Kibum, who is still primly sipping at his iced coffee.

“And?” Sehun prompts.

“Let’s love,” they respond, with all the enthusiasm of a tired Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

But they get back to work. Minho plays the rhythm right, and Baekhyun fixes his intonation.

Junmyeon admires how easily Sehun diffuses the situation; it’s not surprising, considering how many times Sehun has diffused _him_. 

════════

Sehun’s pixelated face murmurs comforting nonsense to him over video call, keeps him from doing something really, _really_ stupid until he throws open the door and bolts towards Junmyeon’s figure cowering on the dusty floor of the practice room. 

He’s getting better. He really is. But everything still hangs in a delicate, wire-thin balance, and some nights, it all comes crashing down again.

Sehun strokes his hair so lightly, so gently, while Junmyeon sobs and sobs about how much he hates the pressure, how much he hates never being enough, how much he hates himself for hating everything. 

Sehun whispers soft encouragement into the crown of his head. He only says what Junmyeon needs to hear, and nothing else. He doesn’t have to ask to know it’s exactly what Junmyeon wants. He just knows.

Sehun has a big heart hidden behind piercing eyes and glowering brows, and Junmyeon doesn’t really deserve it at all. 

Sehun holds him, not tight or suffocating, until the worst of it subsides. Junmyeon gently pushes back from him to scrub at his eyes, red and raw. Sehun’s hands linger at his elbows.

The angles of Sehun’s face, normally severe under the harsh fluorescent lighting, soften through Junmyeon’s teary, post-cry haze. Concern is etched plainly across his features; brows drawn, eyes wide and honest, lips parted slightly. He’s beautiful, devastatingly beautiful, and at the risk of giving himself emotional whiplash, Junmyeon thinks that maybe he really, really wants to kiss him.

Sehun takes hold of his hand. “How about I treat you to some well-deserved decaf tea, hyung?” he offers, like it isn’t 2:47am and they don’t both know that Junmyeon will end up paying anyway. Junmyeon doesn’t respond, but allows Sehun to pull him out of the practice room and to the nearest 24hr convenience store for some well-deserved decaf tea. It’s almost as warm as Sehun’s arm around his shoulders, their knees knocking together on the bench outside the store. Sehun’s breath puffs out frosty as he retells another of his stupid, dumb stories.

It’s almost as warm as the feeling that starts in his toes and blooms outward from his chest.

════════

Later, Chanyeol says to him, “If you’d played the rhythm wrong, I wouldn’t have yelled at you.”

This catches Junmyeon off guard. “Why?” he asks.

Chanyeol shrugs. “You work too hard. Harder than all of us, I think.”

“And Minho doesn’t?”

Another shrug. “Oh, he does. He’s just easier to rile up. And I could tell he wasn’t trying. You always try.”

That much is true. For better or for worse, Junmyeon always tries.

“It’s inspiring, really. I don’t think you know how much we look up to you. It’d be like yelling at, like, your professor or something.”

Junmyeon winces. “I hope I don’t give off a professorly air.”

“Stop wearing turtlenecks, then,” Chanyeol retorts, grinning.

With that, he waves goodbye and heads off to wherever he was going, leaving Junmyeon a little confused and strangely, a little pleased.

════════

After a couple of successful performances, it becomes clear that USM NewMusic Ensemble is no longer a name befitting an ensemble with such vibrance and panache. The next rehearsal is spent tossing around potential monikers over takeout and bubble tea (Junmyeon’s treat, but that’s neither here nor there.) Jongin and Taemin show up too, because they’re practically members of the ensemble at this point.

They decide unanimously on “est in luna.” It’s clearly in halting Google-Translate Latin, but they figure no one will know the difference anyways. Junmyeon feels that familiar tugging in his chest again, deep in his lungs, but he’s no longer afraid of it. Instead, he tests out the new name, repeating the syllables over and over like a prayer.

_Est in luna._

To the moon.

════════

“Swear not to tell anyone,” Junmyeon says to Minseok over greasy slices of pizza, “but I think I may L-word them.”

“Mhm,” his roommate hums into his slice. 

“I’m serious!” Junmyeon exclaims. “If you met them, you’d see.”

“Oh, I’d believe it either way,” Minseok responds, shaking more red pepper flakes onto his pizza.

Junmyeon snatches the shaker from Minseok’s hands and narrows his eyes. “What makes you say that?”

Minseok smiles into his slice and says, “This is the most you’ve talked to me about anything that wasn’t your crippling fear of failure or Van Gogh’s depressing life story. I’d say you definitely, ahem, _L-word_ them.”

Junmyeon thinks about it for at least 3 days. Oh god, he really does… love them.

════════

They agree to meet at the local café, per Jongin’s suggestion, to discuss their upcoming collaboration on Yixing’s newest composition - some ambient improvisational number he had been playing around with for months. Cubbie’s Coffee Roasters is packed during the middle of the day, and Junmyeon shimmies impatiently in the queue, waiting on his _soy latte, hot, decaf, no sweetener_ . A shout rings out from the back of the café, followed by Sehun’s unmistakable laugh; Chanyeol is looming threateningly over a very bored Kyungsoo, who likely just insulted Miles Davis. (A cardinal sin. Junmyeon will have to remember to say something to Kyungsoo later, before he finds his precious score of _Quator pour la fin du temps_ submerged in water.) Everyone seems to have already arrived, except Jongdae, but that’s hardly a surprise. Junmyeon expects that he’ll show up exactly ten minutes late, as he always does, slightly winded and with a huge smile on his face.

Junmyeon slides into the open seat next to Sehun, just in time to hear Kyungsoo extol the virtues of the latest _Legend of Zelda_ soundtrack.

“You hate minimalism, but you adore the _Breath of the Wild_ ost?!” Baekhyun screeches, aghast. He points an accusatory finger at Kyungsoo. “Traitor! Traitor!”

Kyungsoo reaches across the table to cuff him on the shoulder, but it’s only half-hearted this time. Kyungsoo’s been pulling his punches lately, Junmyeon’s noticed, especially with Baekhyun, but he won’t say anything, because nothing is scarier than an embarrassed Kyungsoo.

Next to them, Jinki snorts into his tea, eyes crinkling and lips curving up warmly. Junmyeon feels his own expression mirror Jinki’s, as Sehun leans in and whispers, “Took you long enough.”

Exactly ten minutes after their prescribed meeting time, the bell on the door jingles sharply, and Jongdae rushes in, slightly winded and with a huge smile on his face.

════════

“So, what do you think? Who did it better, nature or Van Gogh?”

Junmyeon leans back further in the passenger seat and stares out through the sun-roof (Sehun called it a moon-roof, the adorable bastard) at the night sky, deep indigo speckled with countless pinpricks of light.

“Now, Sehun, you know that’s a loaded question,” he answers.

Sehun laughs lightly. “I live to make your life difficult.”

It’s quite the opposite, actually, but Junmyeon isn’t about to admit that.

If you had told Junmyeon he’d be stargazing on a chilly Tuesday night, at god knows how late, he wouldn’t have believed you. But Sehun somehow always knew exactly what Junmyeon needed when the pressure was tipping him over the edge. Even if it was stargazing, of all things, on a chilly Tuesday night at god knows how late.

They’d had to travel pretty far outside the city to properly see the stars, but Sehun had told some pretty choice jokes on the drive, ones that had Junmyeon’s sides splitting, and he’d made appropriate fun of Junmyeon’s questionable taste in music, so it’d all been worth it. 

“I don’t have an answer for you,” Junmyeon says after a bit. “This question is unfair.“

“I thought so,” Sehun remarks, and drops the subject.

Junmyeon beats him soundly at a game of create-a-constellation. Music drifts softly from Sehun’s slightly broken speakers, all fuzzy. Like clockwork, Sehun’s hand finds his, thin fingers intertwining with his own.

The stars swirl above them.

 _Floe_ comes on shuffle. Well, not actually. Junmyeon put it in the queue a while back. He unironically loves _Floe_. He unironically loves Philip Glass, too, which is a rather gauche opinion for a music major to hold. He doesn’t care.

Sehun snorts.

Junmyeon just snuggles deeper into the thick scarf wrapped around his neck. A gift from Sehun. Junmyeon suspects he knitted it himself, mostly because of the multiple lines of uneven stitches near the hem. Jinki must’ve shown him how to do it.

The song warbles through the radio, tinged with faint static.

“At the risk of validating your terrible taste in music,” Sehun says, “this is actually the perfect background for stargazing.”

“This is the song I imagine plays as you watch your life flash by you, while you’re dying,” Junmyeon tells him. “It’s existential.”

Sehun hums.

After another minute, Sehun asks, “When you reach the end, watch your life flash by, do you think it will have been a good one?”

There’s a long pause.

Through the moon-roof, the stars wink demurely at them.

“Yes,” Junmyeon admits finally. “I think it will have been.”

════════

On a completely unremarkable Thursday morning, thirty minutes after Sehun stops by with his usual coffee, Junmyeon realizes he’s in love.

════════

“Alrighty then,” Junmyeon says, and pushes off from the bar. “I’m going to request _Floe_ now.” 

It’s Friday night, and they’re at Taemin’s favorite dance club. It’s pretty obvious that he’s a regular here, the way the crowd gathers around him, screaming in approval as he throws it back like he owns the place. Junmyeon’s enough drinks in to start feeling existential, and the DJ here has been taking requests since they arrived.

“You are _not_ , Jun,” Sehun sighs in mock exasperation. “Please do not subject the poor occupants of this respectable club to that.”

Junmyeon frowns, and wobbles precariously. “Can I request the Vengaboys, then? Are the Vengaboys legal?”

Sehun reaches out and gently presses a hand into the small of Junmyeon’s back, steadying him before he tumbles unceremoniously onto the floor. “Yes,” he concedes, “The Vengaboys are legal.”

Junmyeon beams. “You are a saint, you know that? Se _hunnie_ , you are one of the- “ He hiccups. “Of the angelic host. Except you have a normal amount of eyes. Or do you? Sehun are you hiding secret eyes from me?” 

Sehun outright guffaws in great wracking shudders. “No, Jun, I promise I am not hiding any eyes from you.” He pauses. “Unless?”

Junmyeon’s eyes grow round and worried. “Unless?” 

Sehun doesn’t answer, but his face softens into an exquisite smile. He nudges Junmyeon gently towards the DJ booth and starts to remove his hand from Junmyeon’s back. “Go request the Vengaboys, Jun.”

Junmyeon’s hand shoots out, against the will of the more rational part of his brain, and grabs Sehun’s wrist. “Wait,” he slurs, and guides Sehun’s hand back to where it had been resting. “This can stay here.”

Sehun raises his eyebrows, but says nothing. 

“I might fall. And I need someone to help me if the DJ asks me how to spell Vengaboys. I can’t remember how to spell Vengaboys right now,” Junmyeon explains.

“Sure, hyung,” Sehun responds, but his tone is full of affection.

════════

As everyone is packing up following rehearsal that week, Sehun pulls Junmyeon to the side. His cheeks are dusted lightly with pink, which does things to Junmyeon that are quite unfair. 

“Hey, Junmyeon, are you free to talk for a bit?” Sehun asks, faltering slightly. “It’s - important.”

Junmyeon tells him regretfully that he has a meeting with his professor in a couple minutes, but that he’ll be in his usual practice room later that evening. Sehun nods, his smile a little tight, and they go their separate ways. Junmyeon doesn’t think too hard on it, until he does, two hours later in his cramped practice room. _Why did Sehun want to talk to him? What was going on? What was so important that Sehun needed to speak with him about it as soon as possible?_ Junmyeon clunks his forehead inelegantly onto the keyboard cover and lets his arms hang limply at his sides. _Was he having family trouble? Was he mad at Junmyeon? What had Junmyeon done recently that might’ve-_

A soft knock startles Junmyeon out of his catastrophizing. He scrambles for the door handle, pulling it open a little too quickly. Sehun hesitates in the doorway, eyebrows knitted together in a thin line.

“Ah, come in, come in,” Junmyeon says, the words tumbling out too fast. “What’s up?”

Sehun says nothing as he shuffles into the practice room, and Junmyeon closes the door awkwardly around him.

A beat of silence.

“You didn’t bring your trombone with you,” Junmyeon points out lamely.

Sehun purses his _pretty, plush, perfect_ lips. Junmyeon’s eyes are drawn right to them, and he curses himself for it, curses that night at the karaoke place, curses Sehun for not remembering a single thing the next morning.

_______

_They’re at the noraebang, and Sehun is pressing kisses to the side of his neck. They’re at the noraebang, in PUBLIC, while the rest of the ensemble is engrossed in a drunken performance of One Day More, and SEHUN is pressing KISSES to the side of his NECK. Countless shotglasses and bottles of beer are strewn across the table, a couple teetering precariously as someone stumbles backwards. Junmyeon knows everyone is sufficiently plastered, because they’re all standing absurdly close to the television, the lyrics swirling on the screen in hypnotic waves. It’s dark, except for the disco ball effect that breaks in fractured patterns across Sehun’s face._

_“Sehun,” he says, and it comes out strangled._

_Sehun pulls back from where he was most certainly leaving a mark and gazes quizzically at him. His eyes have a faraway look in them, and Junmyeon knows he’s beyond wasted. He’d watched Sehun down multiple shots in a row earlier, the guy was hopelessly drunk._

_“What?” Sehun asks._

_“Sehun,” Junmyeon repeats, and digs his fingers into his thighs. “What - what are you doing?”_

_Sehun’s brows furrow in confusion, and he purses his lips together in a way that nearly makes Junmyeon lose whatever self-control he still has a grasp on. “Wha’ does ‘t look like?” he answers matter-of-factly. “Kissin’ yr neck.” He wavers a bit and grips Junmyeon’s thigh to steady himself._

_Junmyeon gulps._

_“Why d’you ask?” Sehun slurs, and his hand slips further up Junmyeon’s thigh. “Somethin’...wrong?”_

_“Well, no, it’s just, well, you see,” Junmyeon fumbles. He doesn’t know why Sehun would be doing this. Maybe it’s something Sehun had been thinking about for awhile, or maybe it’s just the alcohol. Junmyeon assumes the latter, because the thought that anyone would want to be KISSING his NECK at the noraebang is a little too much for his clouded mind to process. It doesn’t matter the reason why, because they’re in public, and if any members of the ensemble saw this he’d never hear the end of it. “There are...people around, y’know, that could, like, see…”_

_He trails off as Sehun bends down and mouths at his collarbone, disregarding his response completely. His brain shorts out as Sehun clumsily swings a leg over him, shifting so that he’s sitting directly in Junmyeon’s lap. Junmyeon’s hands, pushed from where they were clutching his thighs, scrabble uselessly on the hard plastic of the sofa._

_“Sehun,” he tries again._

_Sehun hums into his pulse point._

_“Why?”_

_Sehun pulls back again, with that same puzzled expression. “Why?” he says. “Aish.”_

_His head drops down again. Hands wander. “So pretty…” he mumbles into the skin underneath Junmyeon’s ear. “Yr so...d’you know? So pretty. So wond’rful. Aish. Make it hard t’...”_

_Junmyeon’s mind churns as quickly as it can through the haze of alcohol. Sehun trails kisses from Junmyeon’s neck to his jaw to his -_

_Just then, the song comes to an end and there’s shuffling as everyone exchanges places for the next number. Junmyeon practically throws Sehun off of him, who whines and slumps halfway off the sofa. Nobody seems to notice, but when his gaze shifts towards the door, he locks eyes with Chanyeol, looking their way, eyebrows arched questioningly. Shit._

_When Junmyeon presses Sehun about the night before, he has absolutely no recollection of a single minute of it._

_______

“What did you want to talk with me about?” Junmyeon asks when the silence stretches on too long.

Sehun runs a hand through his hair. Fiddles with the top button on his shirt.

“Is everything okay at home? Are you having family issues?” Junmyeon says, and it’s so dumb, he _knows_ it’s so dumb, but he has to fill the silence before he loses his mind.

Sehun swallows, and drags his gaze up and down Junmyeon’s form. “No. Not family issues.”

“School stuff, then? It _is_ getting close to finals. I don’t know how the theory-comp major works, though.” The words pour out too quickly. “Are you writing lots of papers? I’m so sorry if you have to write a lot of papers. Or music. Wait, you wouldn’t be writing papers, you would be writing music, right? Sorry. That must be a- ”

“Jun.” Sehun interrupts, massaging his forehead. “You’re talking too much.”

His cheeks are pink again. Junmyeon thinks he looks unreasonably cute.

“Sorry,” Junmyeon mumbles. He hopes Sehun will say whatever he wants to say soon, because if he has to sit through any more uncomfortable silence he really will up and lose it.

“It’s. Ah. It’s fine. I just need to collect my thoughts. Give me a minute.” Sehun bites his lip. “Sorry, I didn’t plan this far.”

He fidgets with his fingers, tapping out rhythms onto pale knuckles, twisting the thin silver band on his pinky finger in anxious circles. Junmyeon got him that ring. It was a birthday gift. 

“So it’s not school stuff?” Junmyeon pipes up again.

“Jun,” Sehun warns.

“Sorry,” he responds.

Sehun goes back to twisting the ring. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Junmyeon watches, and thinks that Sehun is acting rather too much like him right now.

“I don’t know how exactly to say this, so I’m just going to let words come out of my mouth and hope they’re in the right order,” Sehun says finally.

He looks Junmyeon up and down again. His gaze settles somewhere around Junmyeon’s collarbone. In a fit of unforeseen self-confidence, Junmyeon had decided to wear one of his more daring collared shirts. Silky, with an opulent red and black print. No turtleneck. He even unbuttoned it two buttons down, and put on a silver chain. But that’s not important. Is it important? Sehun’s looking at him like it’s important.

Sehun sighs.

He checks the door to make sure there’s a slip of paper securely tucked into the small window - which Junmyeon thinks is kind of silly, Sehun knows that he can’t practice without it blocking the view of nosy outsiders - and steps closer. Too close. He outright looms over Junmyeon, and there’s some expression in his eyes that Junmyeon can’t quite place.

“Are you sure you don’t remember any of the night we went to the karaoke place?” Junmyeon blurts out, and then instantly regrets it.

Sehun flushes - he _flushes_ , Junmyeon’s never seen him look this embarrassed - and says, “I, uh, really don’t, hyung, but I’m starting to think I did something really stupid.”

Sehun sucks in a breath.

“Chanyeol’s been weird all week to me, winking at me and cracking odd jokes and being generally even more of a nuisance. Whenever I talk to you and he’s around, he gives me the most annoying fucking look, all smug, like he knows something I don’t. I try to get him to tell me but he absolutely refuses and my god does he _laugh_ and _laugh_ about it…”

Sehun’s babbling now. He wasn’t lying earlier about just letting the words come out.

“And it doesn’t help that you show up to rehearsal looking like- ” he gestures vaguely to Junmyeon’s two-buttons-unbuttoned-silver-chain-extravaganza “ _-THAT_.”

Junmyeon frowns. This conversation is making him exceedingly more nervous. “Like what?”

Sehun isn’t listening.

“It’s so distracting and I try so hard not to be distracted because what we have now is perfect and wonderful and _you_ are perfect and wonderful and I shouldn’t want anything more but I do a little bit? Just a little. Actually no, disregard that. I didn’t say anything.”

Junmyeon’s head is spinning. Sehun is talking almost too fast for his brain to keep up. He tries to interject with a “want more what?” but Sehun keeps barreling forward.

“Fuck it. Fuck it all. Whatever. I’m just going to say it. Shit. Fuck. I can’t do this. Junmyeon you’re just so - everyday, I - and your, the stupid dumb face you make when you’re thinking about something!”

Junmyeon looks at Sehun, absolutely bewildered.

“That- that one! Stop making that face! Stop it!”

Junmyeon doesn’t have a clue what’s happening. This is not what he expected. “What face? What? What am I doing? Sehun please explain- ”

Sehun takes a step towards him, and Junmyeon instinctively scoots backwards.

There’s a charged moment before Sehun bursts out, “Junmyeon, every day I go through a minor crisis because you are so kind, so sweet, so talented, and so goddamn _pretty_ that I can’t handle it! Your dumb turtlenecks and sweatervests and _pimp shirts_ and the way you squint when you laugh and your weird, endearing mannerisms and your soft fucking _lips_ \- if you have the audacity to look surprised right now, I am going to do something downright nefarious. God, just. You work so hard and have so much love in your heart and everyone loves you so, so much. And- and I just want you to see how much everyone loves you, how much I- ”

Oh. _Oh._ Sehun...oh. Oh my god. Everything clicks into place within Junmyeon’s mind. The soft touches. The late night surprise visits. The night at the noraebang. Sehun wouldn’t lie to him. Would he? Oh my god. 

“Oh my god,” Junmyeon breathes.

“You look surprised, hyung.” Sehun takes another step towards him. “And I’m feeling nefarious.

“Were you going to say the L-word, Sehun?” Junmyeon asks before he can stop himself.

“Call it that ever again, and I swear I’ll sock you,” Sehun says.

“I’m in love with you,” Junmyeon blurts out, stupidly.

Sehun laughs. He _laughs_ , so hard that Junmyeon thinks he might pass out.

“I wanted to say it first, you jerk,” Sehun says, voice low and laced with something that sits hot and heavy in the pit of Junmyeon’s stomach. “And my god, Jun, please button your shirt. It- it’s making it hard for me to breathe.”

“That might be asthma,” Junmyeon whispers.

“Shut up,” Sehun says, and leans in.

It’s honey, sweet and languid, and it courses through Junmyeon’s veins like liquid gold. The kiss quickly turns desperate, months of dancing around each other crowded into one breathless moment. Junmyeon threads his hands into Sehun’s hair and Sehun’s hands settle on his waist, and when Sehun edges a thigh between his legs, Junmyeon suddenly realizes why he’d checked before to make sure there was paper in the window.

════════

It’s the last rehearsal of the semester ( _of Junmyeon’s time here_ , but he doesn’t dwell on that thought too long.) They finally agree to honor Kibum’s request for “opposite day,” after he brought it up at nearly every single rehearsal; although to say _agree_ might be putting it lightly.

More aptly, they _submit_ : when the members straggle into the rehearsal room that evening, they find 6 stands arranged suspiciously in a semicircle, and in the center, Kibum waits menacingly, eyes dark and face drawn. He’s wearing what Junmyeon can only assume are medieval fucking _vestments_ \- an aggressively Catholic robe draped over poofy sleeves and wide legged pants. 

“Please, brethren,” Kibum invites, gracefully waving an ornately embroidered sleeve. “Come, join me.”

“Key, what the fuck is this?” Chanyeol says, eyeing the setup with a guarded expression. Kibum clearly made an effort to arrive early to prepare all of...whatever this was.

“It is time,” Kibum states darkly, and does not bother to explain further. “Minho, have you brought the goods?”

Minho sighs audibly. Kibum’s eyes narrow imperceptibly, and Minho relents, removing the case strapped to his back. 

Junmyeon peeks at the sheet music waiting on each stand and - of course. It’s a Palestrina motet, unaccompanied, for six voices.

“I don’t see why you needed me to bring this,” Minho tries to protest as he pulls out a funky-looking wind instrument. “It’s an unaccompanied motet. I highly doubt Palestrina wanted crumhorns for this.”

“I highly doubt Palestrina is going to rise from the dead and attack me for my artistic decisions,” Kibum counters in a slightly mocking tone. “And besides, I am in no mood to hear your singing today, Minho.”

A chorus of soft gasps echoes around the room. Junmyeon turns to see Kyungsoo, mouth agape, plainly wearing a dismayed look for all to see. Baekhyun hides a snicker into the palm of his hand.

“Alright then,” Minho says, and then mutters under his breath, “Any fucking excuse for me to break out my damn crumhorn.”

As everyone sets off to choose parts, Yixing wanders up to where Minho is crouched on the ground, and stops to hover uncomfortably over him. “Hey,” he says, and rocks back and forth slightly on his heels. “Did you by any chance...bring the bass crumhorn?”

“My fucking GOD,” Minho explodes, but of course he has the bass crumhorn, here it is, why would he not?

Sehun has already started sightreading his part, his voice a little nasal and wholly endearing. Chanyeol joins in, reading over his shoulder, and it soon devolves into a contest of who can sing louder. Junmyeon doesn’t miss the incredulous look Minho throws Kibum.

He hates how much he loves this.

Junmyeon also pointedly refuses to notice how Kibum has printed enough music for 12 people to share, two to a part, like he knew Jongin and Taemin were going to burst in, all smiles, right after Jongdae’s customary “Sorry I’m late!”

The motet goes surprisingly well for a group comprised of largely non-vocalists. They split into sectionals at the beginning to learn their parts, under Kibum’s direction, Junmyeon on altus with Kyungsoo. He laughs openly at Kyungsoo’s furrowed expression as he reads, both playfully shoving each other when they mess up. Junmyeon doesn’t think he’s ever felt this carefree making music before.

Chanyeol insists on filming the performance, because he’s _that confident_ , and when Junmyeon watches the video later, he’s taken aback by the look of pure joy on his face. After the final resolution fades into the air, the reaction is instantaneous. Chanyeol and Sehun whoop, shaking each other in excitement. Kibum looks marvelously pleased. Jongin, Taemin, Jongdae, and Baekhyun clasp hands and dance circles around Kyungsoo, who by some divine miracle is _beaming_. Minho begins playing what could be best described as clown music on his crumhorn, and Yixing joins in, marching around the room with exaggerated swagger. Chanyeol keeps it all in his video, including the part where Junmyeon starts crying.

════════

Junmyeon’s graduate recital arrives, right on schedule, as he knew it always would. He had pushed it back as late in the semester as his professor and the front office would allow, back when he wasn’t sure he could ever bring himself to touch a piano again.

The two weeks leading up to the performance are full of the same sleepless nights as before, the same anxiety attacks and practice room screaming sessions, the same countless number of hours spent repeating a single note over and over again in search of the absolute perfect sound. The same nights that would have broken Junmyeon’s resolve before, would have had him questioning if he really was cut out to be a professional musician, or an _amateur_ musician, or maybe even just a person. The gears in his mind still spin a little too fast, and he still obsesses over minute mistakes, but now he has others to catch him before he thinks himself too deep into a corner.

He hasn’t performed publicly, _alone_ , since the Catastrophic Concerto Calamity of last semester. He knows that he should be freaking out, and maybe he is, more than a little, but the overwhelming encouragement of his fellow members eases the anxiety that used to leave him paralyzed.

Kyungsoo dishes out cutting criticism, subsequently softened by home-cooked traditional Korean food. Sometimes he’ll bring rock hard scones, too, or semi-burnt cookies, which he makes a point to say were made by _Baekhyun, not me, I could never fuck up a cookie this bad_. 

Baekhyun never gives him any baked goods directly, or even mentions them at all, only comes over to snipe about other students and cause general mayhem. But Baekhyun knows that Junmyeon knows about his little baking stint, and always makes sure to give him a crushing hug and a “you’re a bad bitch, Junmyeon, own it!” before he leaves.

Yixing sends him obscure articles and cringe-worthy video essays about music, most of which Junmyeon can’t get halfway through without angrily texting Yixing about the presenter’s dubious knowledge of music theory. Yixing knows that as frustrated as these videos make him, he secretly loves watching them anyways.

Jongin and Taemin drag him, one on each arm, out of the practice room every so often, to “chill out” and play the crane games at the local arcade. Junmyeon suspects it’s because they know he’ll always, without fail, pay for their many futile attempts, but he lets them talk him into it anyways. Jongin wins him a stuffed bunny, and he places it on his piano whenever he practices.

Jinki listens to him run through his program, more times than necessary, really, and claps appreciatively even when Junmyeon messes up spectacularly. He always gives calm advice, his eyes warm and shining, about how to loosen up and breathe and _enjoy_ the music. Enjoy. It’s been awhile since Junmyeon’s thought about that.

Kibum takes him shopping. He says it’s for recital shoes, but Junmyeon doesn’t believe that for a second. They whirl through boutique after designer boutique, Kibum holding various articles of clothing up to him and nodding approvingly. When they finally head to the dressing rooms, Junmyeon’s arm is weighed down with piles of brightly patterned fabric. Kibum’s face lights up when Junmyeon inches out in the first outfit, and he rushes to adjust Junmyeon’s jacket sleeves and compliment his own _excellent artistic eye_ . By the end of the outing, Junmyeon has perfected his model strut, sending Kibum into fits of laughter whenever he dramatically throws open the curtain. He does end up buying recital shoes, ironically, along with several unnecessary shirts, and an eyeshadow palette that Kibum _swears_ increases confidence.

Chanyeol and Minho rope him into a pickup basketball game. He’s woefully out of shape and depressingly uncoordinated, but he still isn’t as bad as Sehun, who misses every single jumpshot he takes. That is, if whatever Sehun does can even be _called_ a jumpshot. One game turns into two, and then three, and when Junmyeon swishes a three-pointer for the first time, Minho nearly tackles him, and Chanyeol smacks his back so hard he’s sure it will leave a mark.

Even Kim Jongdae. He has since forgiven Junmyeon for his irrational, unwarranted hatred of him (he never even knew about it in the first place) and is always quick to pick up the phone when Junmyeon calls. Sometimes it’s about struggles with anxiety, sometimes it’s for advice on a musical passage, and sometimes it’s just to hear Jongdae’s obnoxious laugh when Junmyeon finally cracks a joke that lands. _Wow, Junmyeon_ , his voice crackles through the phone, _I think you’re actually becoming funny._

And Sehun, Sehun, Sehun. He’s become a constant now, always there to drive Junmyeon home from the conservatory when it’s too late to walk, always there when the pressure becomes overwhelming and pushes out of Junmyeon’s chest in heavy, wracking sobs, always there with a soft touch and a soothing word when the familiar wide-eyed panic sets in and threatens to choke him. To him, Sehun is light and life, and Junmyeon thrives under his round-cheeked, squinty smiles. They do what they’ve always done, except now Junmyeon lets himself _feel_ , lets his heart grow full with a love he’d long since kept locked away. And every Thursday, Sehun shows up to Junmyeon’s practice room, like he’s been doing since the beginning, with a kiss and a _soy latte, hot, decaf, no sweetener._

_______

The moment comes.

Junmyeon hopes for the best, expects the worst, and gets something comfortably in between.

Jongdae and Sehun hype him up backstage, and shove water bottles his way until he laughingly yells at them that he’s _hydrated enough, dammit!_ He doesn’t trip over his own two feet walking on stage, and his foot doesn’t slip ungracefully off the pedal. Whatever he requests of the piano, it gives him. His chest feels light, free - his mind, centered. _Music was always a dialogue, never a contract_ . Music is deeply personal, and meant to be shared, and Junmyeon shakily admits, as the last note echoes around the hall, that maybe, _just maybe,_ he’s okay bearing this part of himself to others again.

Resounding applause. The audience asks for an encore, and he gives them one. When he bows for the second time, he finally steals a glance at the crowd, and - the auditorium is far from full, but it overwhelms him anyway. There’s his family, sitting front and center, exactly where he told them _not_ to sit because it was an acoustically dead space and provided a view of Junmyeon’s worst angle. In the back, Junmyeon’s professor, where she always sat for performances. His studio, close by. The _other_ piano studios, too. Students he tutored in theory. Acquaintances from other classes that he figured didn’t care about him at all. Minseok, front right, wearing a brilliant smile. And, taking up the row behind him…

They’re giving him a standing ovation. They’re _all_ giving him a standing ovation. Suddenly the concerto competition seems very far away.

Junmyeon can’t help it. The tears fall unbidden.

He forms words clumsily around the lump in his throat. “I’d like to thank my family, my professor, and my studio for everything. All the support, and - and advice. All of you helped make this recital a reality. And…” he trails off. He can already hear Baekhyun’s groan. What he’s going to say next is so sappy and gross and it comes out of his mouth before he can think twice. “My other family. _Est in luna_. I don’t think I’d still be here, now, if it weren’t for you. Thanks for showing me, in your own weird, roundabout way, how to love music again.” 

He bows once more, and doesn’t stop to think about how embarrassing it is that he just cried _in front of his whole damn studio_ until he’s offstage. Even then, he doesn’t have much time to worry about it, because as soon as he turns the corner into the auditorium lobby, his ensemble, his _family_ ambushes him. 

He’s sweaty, and someone is touching his butt, but he doesn’t care; they’re here and they love him and _he loves them_ and his heart is too full to really mind at all. 

When they finally release him, Jongdae brandishes a _huge_ bouquet of flowers, even bigger than the one Junmyeon got him for the showcase, and he can’t hold back any longer. He sobs, long and loud, into the sleeve of his lucky performance shirt, the silk one with the mandarin collar.

 _━━━━━_ _epilogue_ _━━━━━_

Junmyeon graduates in May, alongside Jinki, and Kyungsoo, Baekhyun, Chanyeol, and Jongdae. He figures that everyone will go their separate ways, the ensemble will dissolve, and their time together will fade into a blissful, healing memory. But then, Junmyeon gets a gig in town, then two, then three. He finds a new apartment once his lease expires, suspiciously close to Sehun’s building. Jinki lands an audition for the local symphony orchestra. Jongdae defects from USM to do his Master’s at the rival conservatory on the other side of town, while Kyungsoo returns for his Master’s at USM. ( _I couldn’t in good conscience leave Junmyeon to his own devices_ , Kyungsoo had deadpanned, cracking a huge heart-shaped grin when Junmyeon had punched his arm.) Chanyeol takes a gap year, swinging jazz gigs around town and working feverishly on his growing Youtube channel. Baekhyun is the only one to leave town, for his Master’s at a conservatory further north, but it’s only an hour’s drive, and he comes back enough to visit Kyungsoo anyhow.

Maybe when the others graduate, that’ll be that. But for now, they’re all still together, all still playing, all still Junmyeon’s favorite people in the whole entire world.

And they’re all here, now, almost exactly a year after Junmyeon’s recital.

Friday night. Taemin’s favorite dance club.

Junmyeon offers up his credit card for a tab, and then instantly regrets it when Chanyeol and Sehun order and subsequently down more shots than the human body should be able to handle. He sighs, bemused, and sips at his vodka tonic as Chanyeol requests yet _another_ round for everyone. It’s okay. The gig was worth it.

This time, they’re celebrating opening night of their weeklong run of Merce Cunningham’s dance work, Events. There had been critics, of course. Junmyeon knows; he saw them, with their pens and notepads and discerning gazes, lurking amongst the audience. He has no idea what they thought of the performance. He won’t know until later, when the reviews get published. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t mind, because it was all improv anyways, and he had smiled enough during the performance to call it a success.

He takes another sip of his vodka tonic, swinging his legs absently on the barstool.

From behind, arms slither around his waist, a chin tucks into his shoulder.

“HOW’S THE RECORDING WITH JONGDAE GOING?!” Sehun shouts directly into his ear.

Junmyeon jumps and shoves his palm into Sehun’s cheek. “Jesus, Sehun! I can hear you, alright?” he gripes, but it’s without much bite.

Sehun just tightens his grip on Junmyeon’s waist and tucks his chin deeper into his shoulder.

“It’s going fine,” Junmyeon says, “We finished up the last of it this morning. They’re all smitten with Jongdae - I think they want to record a live staging of it after the album, which is great for him, but by god there’s only so much vocal fry I can take in one lifetime.”

For the past couple of days, Junmyeon and Jongdae had spent a disconcerting amount of daylight crammed into a tiny studio, recording Peter Maxwell Davies’ _Eight Songs For A Mad King_. Initially, Junmyeon had been incredibly honored that Jongdae had asked him to join the ensemble for the recording session, but after the first 6 hours, he felt like he was going to become the mad king himself and start smashing instruments.

“But,” he continues, wriggling out of Sehun’s grasp and swiveling around to face him, “Let’s not talk about career stuff while we’re at the damn club.”

“Okay,” Sehun says, and places both of his hands on Junmyeon’s thighs.

Junmyeon lets him bend over and press kisses to the side of his neck, in _public_ , and tries not to gasp too audibly or catch Chanyeol’s gaze. He would most certainly say something exasperating if he saw, with that godawful smug smile on his face too, the same one he’d had when they’d first told him that they were dating, and _yes, we know you knew, you can stop being annoying about it now._

At the karaoke booth, Jongdae and Minseok are practically screaming the words to some Missy Elliott song. Junmyeon regrets introducing them to each other already, but he’s glad he at least waited until after he’d moved into his new studio apartment. Jongdae was already loud enough by himself, and even though Minseok wasn’t, they became a force of fucking nature whenever they were together. Next to them, Jongin and Taemin hype them up beyond belief, and sing along loud enough that Junmyeon swears he can hear them over the booming bass.

Sehun’s teeth catch on the skin beneath his jaw, and he swallows an embarrassing noise before it reaches anyone’s ears. (Not like they could hear, anyway. It’s fucking loud in here.)

At the edge of the dance floor, Kibum (in a wackier outfit still, this one all uneven hems and metallic embroidery) seems to be intoning a chant, eyes closed and hands steepled together reverently. Minho grinds against him in a way that should really be illegal - well, semi-illegal at least. It’s okay when Sehun does it.

Like now. Oops.

Close by, Yixing is a whirlwind of body rolls and sharp limbs, sweat flying off him as he performs a complicated routine for a nonexistent audience. He’s surprisingly good. Junmyeon almost feels bad that no one’s paying attention to him, instead circled around some other interesting spectacle. He squints, and catches none other than Jinki blinking in and out through the mass of writhing bodies, busting out some humiliatingly old-school dance moves. Junmyeon has to look away as Jinki starts to do the robot; he supposes some people could get away with being embarrassing simply by being charmingly enthusiastic about it.

 _Like you_ , Sehun’s voice says in his head. He tells it to shut up.

A few seats down at the bar, Kyungsoo is gesturing wildly, wide-eyed and adorably flushed, to an equally wide-eyed Chanyeol. Either Chanyeol made the mistake of bringing up The Prince of Tennis, Junmyeon surmises, or someone mentioned something adjacent to the M-word (which was “Messiaen,” by the way; it was literally impossible to shut Kyungsoo up once he got started.)

Surprisingly, it’s neither, and Junmyeon watches as Kyungsoo successfully convinces Chanyeol to play some Varèse with him. (" _Chanyeol, percussion V has a part for lion’s roar. How dope is that?! Come on, you know you want to play lion’s roar!”_ ) Baekhyun hovers close behind Kyungsoo, smiling fondly. He laughs too loud into Kyungsoo’s ear, and wraps himself around Kyungsoo’s shoulders. He gets no resistance. Lucky bastard. Junmyeon had breathed on Kyungsoo the other day, and had nearly gotten the soul knocked out of his body.

God, he loves them so much. _God_ , he loves them all _so much._

“Hey, hyung?” Sehun’s voice cuts in. He’s looking at Junmyeon with such blatant affection that it makes Junmyeon’s heart nearly burst out of his chest. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I am,” Junmyeon says. “Just thinking.”

Sehun cocks his head. “About what?”

“About how the moment we leave this place, I’m going to slam you into the nearest wall,” he responds matter-of-factly. It’s only partially true, but he loves the way Sehun’s cute little lips round into a surprised oh. He loves the way Sehun does a lot of things, and makes sure to tell him at every possible moment.

“We can leave now,” Sehun says bluntly, and it’s so _goddamn cute_.

“Patience, young Padewan,” Junmyeon scolds, “I still have a request for the DJ when Jongdae and Minseok are done forcibly removing my eardrums from my skull.”

Sehun’s face scrunches up in feigned disgust. “I still don’t know how you’re able to become so delightfully unsexy so quickly, hyung. Givin’ me fuckin’ whiplash.”

“Years of practice.”

Sehun pouts.

“Okay, okay. Let’s compromise,” Junmyeon says.

“You’re so uncool,” Sehun complains, as Junmyeon drags him down into a kiss.

It’s passionate, and full of the certainty of _always_. Like early morning coffee and late night tea, warm and comforting, with steam curling off in slow, lazy circles. Like rough canvas and spilled paint, gilded frames under golden spotlights, opulent, manic, uncaged. Like stars spilling in an untouched sky, winking in forever. 

Like neon, glowing heady and brilliant.

Like Sehun, dazzling in the shimmer of pink and blue pulsating from above, a little blurry from the vodka tonics and Junmyeon’s fogged up glasses, but still rich, gorgeous; a spray of diamonds cascading from star-bright fountains into waiting hands. Achingly saccharine. Achingly perfect.

Like home.

God, he loves him so much. _God_ , he loves Sehun _so much._

He breaks the kiss to say as much, which he knows probably frustrates Sehun, but the feelings are billowing out in unfettered, golden waves, and _who is he to stop them?_

They overflow in a wild, euphoric rush when he hears Sehun breathe “ _I love you too, baby,”_ onto the corner of his mouth, intimate. Sehun’s fingers find where Junmyeon’s shirt has come untucked, trace patterns on the sensitive skin underneath. When Sehun nips lightly at his bottom lip, Junmyeon considers maybe just abandoning his request and leaving the club right then. Wall-slamming could take priority. Someone else could shoulder the burden of preventing Chanyeol from making the same dumb request he always makes.

Baekhyun yells something annoying and unnecessary their way, probably “ _get a room!_ ” like he wasn’t even worse with his serious and bespectacled friend. Junmyeon ignores him in favor of playing with the soft ends of Sehun’s hair.

 _“Oh, Jun,”_ Sehun exhales, barely audible, _“Oh, Jun.”_

Jongdae and Minseok’s thoroughly rousing performance of Work It is met with deafening cheers, and brings the first hour of karaoke to a close. The DJ announces that they’ll be taking requests in the interim, as they get ready for round two.

“Alrighty then,” Junmyeon whispers onto Sehun’s lips, “I’m going to request _Floe_ now.” He pulls back to grin widely. “Is that legal?”

Sehun pretends to ponder Junmyeon’s question with mock gravity. “Now Jun, I’m not so sure about that.”

“What, would you rather Chanyeol request his own mixtape again?” Junmyeon teases laughingly.

Sehun blanches. “Jun, you know I’m _on_ that mixtape, right?”

Junmyeon snickers, and gives his ass a little pat. “Exactly.”

Sehun considers this for a second. “Hm, I suppose I could allow you to commit just _one_ crime tonight,” he concedes, and lets Junmyeon drag him to the DJ station.

“You know the club is going to hate this,” Sehun says after Junmyeon relays his request to the DJ (without having to ask how to spell Floe _or_ Philip Glass, mind you.)

Junmyeon laughs and chirps, “I know! And I don’t care,” and for the first time in possibly his entire life, he means it. “Now come on, let’s get existential!”

He smiles so hard it hurts, and tugs Sehun onto the dance floor.

_______

Sehun is eccentric, easygoing, and has a big heart hidden behind piercing eyes and glowering brows - and he is Junmyeon’s, _always and forever._

 _━━━━━_ _fin_ _━━━━━_

**Author's Note:**

> And scene.
> 
> Thanks for reading! This story came together in the last couple months of my undergrad in piano. Due to the pandemic, I had to complete my degree online (which really doesn't work for musicians, unfortunately...) and had to give my senior recital alone in a room via livestream. It all felt so terribly anticlimactic, and so I channeled a lot of that into this story. I wanted to give Jun the happy ending I wished for. Jun's struggle is unfortunately very common for a lot of musicians, but equally common is the support we find in our ensembles, our studios, our other musician friends. Loving yourself is easier when you see that love reflected all around you.
> 
> Again, this story is deeply personal, and my first full fic - my first foray back into writing in a long, long time. Really, thank you so much for reading. I hope it means as much to you as it meant to me while writing.


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